Bridget Jones's Tadfield Diary
by Igorina
Summary: Bridget Jones Good Omens crossover. The world best known selfhelp addict and diarist has been sent to produce a documentary on youth disorder in Lower Tadfield. Will she last the week without falling foul of diabolic machinations?
1. Monday

**_Monday 22nd June_**

_9st 5 (must do better), alcohol units 2 (vg), cigarettes 4 (g), calories 1869 (vg)._

9:30 a.m. Cinnamon Productions called this morning to tell me am now assistant producer for _Rural England Uncovered_; ultra tacky expose of the seedier side of village life. Have been instructed to go to meet film crew in village called Lower Tadfield and get residents to talk about problem of juvenile delinquency in the area. Plan to be super efficient and get all interviews done in two days, so will be able to spend rest of week enjoying lovely carefree mini-break in the countryside.

10:00 a.m. Oh bugger, the car won't start.

11:30 a.m. Bloody car still won't start. Cannot call Mark as he's in Bolivia doing important human rights work. Shaz not answering mobile. Jude was in v. important meeting, and was therefore not ecstatic to hear from me. Never mind, am independent self-sufficient woman who is more than capable of navigating the British railway network.

3:00 p.m. Ugh. Bloody railway network. Must have got on the train at the wrong platform. Am standing in tiny station located somewhere called Little Whinging. Have no idea which part of the country am in - if am still in the same country that is - or where the hell it is relative to desired location. Also, phone's battery has run out, and am unable to call television crew. Help!

5:00 p.m. Hurrah, am finally back on way to Lower Tadfield. It took over an hour for the bloody train to arrive, but didn't mind so much as managed to have lovely conversation with a very polite young man called Harry. Poor thing told me that he use to go to awful public school where he was stalked by unhinged upper class prefect called Drake or Drakie or something like that. There was also a weird nutcase headmaster (now deceased) who told him that he had to save the world.

"Nobody can ever succeed all of the time. The important thing is that we find our true path in life," I told him, attempting to sound like wise guru type figure.

"If I don't succeed then I'll die," he said, looking thoroughly miserable.

Talk about pushy, draconian, outmoded education practices.

As if that wasn't bad enough he also said that it was a regular occurrence for the boys to get their wands out in public! Will possibly report this Hogwarts place to social services and/or the Local Education Authority. Still, I did manage to give him one of my self-help books, which might help with his chronic insecurity and debilitating fear of failure.

7:00 p.m. Made it to the Tadfield terminus. Now all I have to do is find The Oak Tree Hotel, where film crew are staying.

7:45 p.m. Am currently in a lane in the middle of nowhere dragging enormous suitcase behind me. Cannot find hotel. Cannot even find village. Am probably being stalked by crazed axe murderer. Help!

11:00 p.m. Thank God (or other world deities). I'm finally safe; and sleeping on sofa of Jasmine Cottage. Was stumbling down an empty country road, scared and completely lost, when I heard a voice ask me if I was okay. I thought at first that I'd started to have auditory hallucination; but when I turned round there was actually a woman standing there.

"I'm looking for the Oak Tree Hotel," I said, trying to project outward appearance of inner poise.

"But that's in Upper Tadfield, which is over six miles away in that direction," said the woman, pointing to somewhere in the distance.

Was unable to stop self from promptly bursting into tears.

"I think that we should probably get you inside. You look freezing. My name's Anathema by the way."

Anathema! Parents must have been complete sadists.

"Bridget," I sniffled.

Was then led to charming tumbledown cottage where Anathema lives with fiancé Newt Pulsifer. Suspect that his parents must have been sadists also. Newt offered to give me lift to hotel, but Anathema vetoed suggestion on the grounds that 'nobody was getting into that car until it's been fully serviced at the garage'. Newt said that he had spent all weekend making the necessary repairs. Anathema countered by saying that he'd claimed the exact same thing about the downstairs wiring.

"The men from the National Grid said that it was probably just a coincidence," protested Newt.

"And the satellite dish?" said Anathema, raising an eyebrow.

"Anybody could have made that mistake. Even the people from NASA didn't know how that happened."

"Newt, the probe got redirected to the bottom of the Pacific Ocean."

After much debating it was decided that I should stay at Jasmine cottage for the night and then get the bus to Upper Tadfield tomorrow morning. Newt's also offered to upgrade my laptop to the latest version of Windows. Think I love Anathema and Newt (in totally platonic way of course).


	2. Tuesday

A/N: I completely forgot that I started this fic until earlier in the week coming across the first instalment on my hard drive and have resolved to finish it. Huge thank you to everybody who commented on the first chapter.

_**Tuesday 23rd June**_

_9st4 (approx. as Anathema's bathroom scales don't work), alcohol units 0 (saintly), cigarettes 24 (perfectly understandable given circumstances), calories 1250 (vg. But probably more due to Anathema's organic cooking than actual self-control)._

9:35 a.m. Day's started very well; even if Anathema's organic muesli was impossible to chew. Asked if she had any Cheerios in the house and was given twenty minute lecture on the evils perpetrated by the global cereal industry. Note to self: never, ever, under any circumstances mention own patronage of Starbucks in Anathema's presence, except in unlikely even that self ever wants to be exposed to _that_ look again. After breakfast, or a least what I could eat of it, left laptop with Newt, who kindly invited me to dinner tonight:

"It'll just be me, Anathema, my old Sergeant and Madam…er, I mean, his wife," he said.

Was surprised by this: Newt doesn't look like type who would pass army physical and Anathema doesn't seem like the type who'd let anybody associated with the military into the cottage.

"That'll be super," I said, making a mental note to eat before I arrive.

"Great, we'll come and pick you up at half six. We should have a temporary replacement for the Wasabi by then."

Wasabi? Possibly indicating that sushi in on dinner menu; however as Anathema is strict vegetarian, can only assume that will be eating some sort of fishless sushi substitute. Eeep.

Newt then pointed me in direction of nearest bus stop, which is almost a mile down the road from cottage and lacks bus shelter (possibly due to vandalism by unruly local youth). Still, bus is due very soon and it doesn't look like it's about to rain.

10:55 a.m. Bus still not turned up. Suspect that in the part of the country following timetable is optional. Clouds in sky starting to look v. ominous.

11:15 a.m. Is pouring down. Am wearing ill advised white t-shirt. Where the hell is the bus?

11:25 a.m. Bus has finally arrived. Only other passengers are two scruffy-looking men in grubby macks who're skulking about on the back seat (had not previously thought it possible for anybody to skulk while sitting down yet they seem to have managed it). Think the tall thin one is leering at me and his short, fat companion glowering. Clearly even picturesque rural areas have dirty old men lurking about in the social undergrowth.

5:30 p.m. Well, after the journey from hell, during which the bus got stuck for half an hour in a small pothole in the road and the driver, clearly unaware that anybody on board might have been in a hurry, twice paused for a cup of tea, a smoke and a short walk round the outside of the vehicle, finally arrived at the Oak Tree Hotel in Upper Tadfield. Unfortunately, when I attempted to check in the man at the front desk informed me that the entire crew from Cinnamon Productions had checked out two hours earlier and relocated to somewhere called Tadfield Manor due to a dispute about towels. Was mid-way through v. loud rant on why the bastard should have at least told me that they were buggering off to another hotel, when realised that reason for lack of communication was that mobile had run out of battery.

Having learned lesson about local bus service the hard way, I then caught a taxi to the slightly creepy-looking Tadfield Manor, whereupon was berated by over half of the crew for not turning up yesterday.

"Well, you should have bloody checked the map before you set off," shouted Dave the alcoholic sound technician, completely unsympathetic to my plight.

Feel that crew's lack of compassion is indicative of way society is becoming less tolerant and understanding of the misfortunes of others. When I mentioned this to Dave however he completely lost it and proceeded to scream something about just being intolerant of shear bloody-minded incompetence. Found self maliciously wishing that Dave would develop a severe case of laryngitis.

Was then driven back to Lower Tadfield – just five hundred metres from where I first set off this morning – and taken to the home of my first interviewees Mr. and Mrs. RP Tyler. Mrs. Tyler stared at me in highly disapproving fashion as I entered their chintz filled horror of house. Suspect that this Mrs. Tyler puts any woman who wears a skirt that doesn't reach her calves must be a gin soaked prostitute.

"So Mr. Tyler, could you describe the behaviour of local teenagers?" I asked, in my most professional and serious-sounding voice, expecting him to detail a catalogue of break-ins and drug fuelled violence.

Mr. Tyler cleared his throat a look of horrible smugness crossing his face. "Yesterday," he said. "There were four of them sitting on the village green."

"And what were they doing?" I asked.

"I just told you," he said, looking at me as though I was completely stupid. "They were sitting on the green."

"Just sitting on the green?"

"Well," he lowered his voice, "I heard one of them swearing."

"Er, right. Anything else?"

Mr. Tyler then proceeded to spend the next three hours listing a series of equally bizarre complaints about the children in the area, before declaring that hanging, flogging, compulsory national service and a ban on anybody under the age of twenty-eight staying out later than half past nine at night was the one and only cure for society's ills, whilst his wife made sporadic comments (with pointed looks at me) about how the filth on TV was entirely to blame for young people's rudeness these days. When I suggested that they were perhaps being a little hard on the youth of today, Mr. Tyler declared that he hadn't expected such impertinence from me and was going to write a letter of complaint to The Times about the impoliteness and libertine standards of the media. Went away with distinct impression that the Tyler's would not be satisfied unless everybody under the age of twenty-one spent all day sitting quietly indoors. Still, the crew has assured me that non-sensical ranting about young people appeals to a large section of the 55+ viewing demographic.

Anyway, will put all thought of unpleasant old men out of my mind as am currently getting ready for Newt and Anathema's dinner. Have decided not to wear anything that has visible designer labelling as suspect that this may lead disapproving comments on Anathema's part about consumer culture. Am also against consumer culture, of course, just in a less obvious way than Anathema; after all _Discovering Your Social Consciousness_ devotes five chapters to explaining how overspending on non-essential items can lead to alienation and unhappiness (though this sometimes makes me wonder why _Discovering Your Social Consciousness_ costs £27:99).

5:45 p.m. Gah. Just remembered that Newt and Anathema don't know I've moved hotels. Still, never mind, I can phone them up.

5:55 p.m. Have realised that a) I've left my phone charger at home and a) don't have the number for Jasmine Cottage anyway.

9:20 p.m. Well, that has to be one of the strangest dinner parties I've ever attended. Amazingly Newt and Anathema turned up at Tadfield Manor at 6:00 p.m. on the dot. When I asked how they'd known I'd be there they both just smiled. Was then driven in Newt's new hire car back to Jasmine cottage, whereupon, at Anathema's prompting, Newt confessed that the upgrading of my laptop hadn't quite gone as planned.

"I did manage to double the size of the hard drive," he said, looking at the floor. "It's just…just, well; it seems to be refusing to run Windows in any language apart from Norwegian. I'm not quite sure what happened." Then he seemed to brighten slightly. "I'll have another go at fixing it tomorrow though."

"We'll buy you a new one," said Anathema. "You've got all your important documents backed up, haven't you?"

"Er, yes," I said, not wanting to admit that I only ever seem to use the laptop for playing Solitaire and Minesweeper.

Ten minutes later the other guests arrived. I wasn't sure what I'd expected Newt's old sergeant and his wife to look like, but I really hadn't expected him to be dressed in an ancient, stained anorak and her to be wearing a full sequinned evening dress and feather festooned hat.

"Bridget," Newt said, "I'd like you to meet Sergeant Shadwell and Madam Tracy. And Sergeant Shadwell and Madam Tracy I'd like you to meet our new friend Bridget Jones."

"Hello love, it's just Tracy now, I've retired," said Madam Tracy, smiling at me.

Sergeant Shadwell looked at me critically for a moment before saying. "So lassie, yeh not one of the daughters o'the night are yeh?"

"Of course she's not," said Newt quickly. "She's works for a television company."

"So how many's she got then?"

"How many what?" I asked, rather disturbed that the old man suspected me of being some sort of prostitute.

"Nipples," he said.

For a moment there was deathly silence.

Finally the woman formerly known as Madam Tracy cleared her throat. "There'll be less of that," she said sharply, before smiling at me again. "You shouldn't mind him love. He sometimes forgets that he's retired."

Forgets that he's retired? I know that Shaz is always going on about the army being a breeding ground for misogyny and sexual harassment, but I didn't think that it would be this bad.

Dinner itself turned out not to be sushi substitute, but what seemed to be a watery vegetable stew. Sergeant Shadwell muttered darkly about something called 'phenomena' throughout and insisted on referring to his wife as 'my painted Jezebel' whilst the rest of us ate in an uncomfortable silence. On the bright side however none of those present showed the slightest inclination to make comments of a smug married variety. Afterwards Newt and Anathema apologised profusely and drove me back to Tadfield Manor.


	3. Wednesday

_**Wednesday 24th June**_

9st 3 (g), alcohol units 3 (g), cigarettes 17 (v.bad), calories 3300 (v.v.bad), no. of flash bastards encountered 1 (v. annoying).

2:30 p.m. Spent all morning looking for some young tearaways to interview. In the end found some teenagers hanging around what looked like a shopping trolley graveyard. Unlike the bleary eyed glue sniffers I'd been expecting however these four: Adam (something strange about him that I can't put my finger on), Pepper (point blank refused to tell me her real name, another example of parental sadism, perhaps), Brian (probable soap allergy) and Wensleydale (his surname I hope, surely parental sadism can't be _that_ rife in this part of the country) seemed to have stepped out of the pages of an Enid Blyton novel. All of them seemed eager to be on TV. So I quizzed them on camera about any antisocial behaviour they'd been involved in.  
"Well, Adam stole some apples from the tree in Mr. Tyler's garden," said Brian.  
"It wasn't proper stealing," protested Adam. "The bit of the tree that I took them from was hanging over the fence next to the footpath. You can't steal anything from a public footpath, can you?"  
"Well, you could," said Wensleydale. "If it was something like a road sign or traffic lights."  
"Yes, but he wasn't talking about road signs or traffic lights, was he," said Pepper.  
"But he said 'you can't steal _anything_ from a public footpath, didn't he?"  
"Er, so apart from stealing apples have any of you four been in trouble with the law?" I asked desperately.  
There was a long pause.  
"Last week a policeman told me off for running across the road without using the pedestrian crossing," said Pepper.

After finally ascertaining that all four of them had never been joy riding and/or taken Class A drugs I promised them that I'd mention their ideas for new television programs to the head of Cinnamon Productions if I ever got the opportunity, and asked if they knew of any young local hooligans who might be willing to be interviewed.  
"You could try Greasy Johnson," said Adam, still looking disappointed that we weren't going to film his dog doing tricks.  
I thanked them and said goodbye.  
"Bridget," he called out, as I was getting back into the van. "Be careful around strange men."  
_Be careful around strange men?_ I wonder if there is some kind of deranged prowler on the loose. Will possibly ask somebody at the hotel if they've heard anything.

4:50 p.m. Was very relieved to discover that Greasy Johnson not actually named Greasy. Despite having recently been grounded for breaking next door's window while throwing around a rugby ball in the back garden, he showed little sign of actual teen hooliganism and seemed to be mostly interested in talking about tropical fish and American football.  
"It's tonnes better than English football," he said, showing me his stack full of magazines on subject. "Do you think that maybe your TV company could do a program on it?"  
I promised him that I'd suggest it to somebody.  
"Thanks," he said, beaming, before suddenly staring at my handbag.  
"What is it?" I asked.  
"Why've you got a diet book?" he said, pointing to the copy of _Shedding the Pounds the Spiritual Way_ that was poking out of the top.  
"Oh that, I'm trying to lose weight."  
His brow creased. "But you don't need to lose weight, Miss Jones."  
It took some effort to resist hugging him. Greasy then asked me if he could have my autograph to go with his collection. Think I may have just become object of teenage crush. Not sure whether to be pleased or disturbed.

Am starting to suspect that problem of out of control youth in Lower Tadfield in none existent and purely result of complaining on the part of unpleasant small minded, patriarchal middle Englanders who still think that children should be seen and not heard. However, as Dave the sound technician so bluntly pointed out, if we can't find any local yobs to interview by tomorrow we're all bollocksed.

5:45 p.m. The rudeness of some men is unbelievable. Was minding own business and having cigarette in car park when had to dive to my right to avoid being hit by vintage car doing about 50mph. The driver - flash bastard wearing sunglasses and Armani suit – proceeded to get out of and storm over to me. Not as first thought to help me up, but to start hurling abuse.  
"What the bloody h…heav… fuck did you think you were doing standing in the middle of bloody road like that."  
Pointed out to him that was in fact standing in car park not road.  
"Well, in future look where you're bloody well going. You could have wrecked the paint job on the Bentley."

Was so incensed by flash bastard's behaviour that phoned Shaz to complain.  
"Overcompensation," she said. "Has to be. I mean: big car, expensive suit, pathological hatred of women who stand in his way. What more proof do you need?"

8:25 p.m. Harrumph. Went down to restaurant and bar for dinner, only to find flash bastard surrounded by entire production crew who were slavishly hanging off every word. Turns out that he's none other than one AJ Crowley, the man who practically invented reality television. He was quizzing them about the filming of _Rural England Uncovered_.  
"Of course the problem is that Bridget can't seem to find us any delinquents or yobs," said Dave the sound technician.  
The rest of them tittered. Was at once overcome by feelings of intense embarrassment and professional inadequacy. Despite the fact that _Jump Starting Your Career_ says that one should always weather out this kind of situation found self desperately wanting to leave room  
"Oh, well, that problem's easy to solve," said flash bastard, smiling at me in a sleazy yet horribly attractive way. "You just hire yourselves some yobs and interview them. You could even give them a script."  
I told him firmly that I was completely unprepared to compromise own journalistic integrity.  
He rolled his eyes and shrugged. "Your funeral."

9:15 p.m. Repeat to self: 'have a loving, stable boyfriend who happens to be brilliant human rights lawyer, having sudden improper fantasies about annoying flash bastard is therefore not healthy'.

9:30 p.m. Will not fantasise about flash bastard.

9:45 p.m. Will definitely not fantasise about flash bastard.

9:50 p.m. Oh alright then. But only for a few minutes.


	4. Thursday

_**Thursday 25th June**_

9st 4 (slipping), alcohol units 16 (bad), cigarettes 25 (v.bad), calories 1766 (g), no. of immortal souls sold to hell 1 (v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v bad).

9:30 a.m. Spent all morning so far trying to locate juvenile delinquents and local yobs that had been told prowled the streets of Lower Tadfield. Could however only find naughty children, accident prone teens and loveable rogues. Am starting to suspect that there is something very odd about this village.

10:45 a.m. Still cannot find any yobs. Am starting to panic. What if there are none to be found. But point blank refuse to compromise journalistic integrity and personal ethics by faking it.

10:50 a.m. Will not under any circumstances compromise journalistic integrity.

10:55 a.m. Will not compromise journalistic integrity, will not compromise journalistic integrity.

11:00 a.m. On the other hand will probably never work again if documentary not filmed by end of week.

11:03 a.m. Will compromise journalistic integrity this once. But only so that will continue to be employed and therefore able to use journalistic integrity in the future.

4:50 p.m. Eventually found two suitable yobs in pub in town ten miles north of Tadfield. When we entered the _Dog and Rattlesnake_ there appeared to be a full scale skirmish going on between five different factions and pretty soon found self diving into alcove to avoid table flying through the air. Unfortunately, while ducking out of way of what looked like a battle crazed sixty-five year old crashed right into red-haired woman in a dress (also red) far too skimpy for the weather, who had the most worrying smile I've ever seen on something that wasn't member of reptile kingdom.  
"I'm terribly sorry," I blabbered, unable to shake sense of being completely flustered. "I'm just looking for a few yobs to interview."  
"You're a reporter, huh?" she said in an American accent.  
I nodded. "Sort of. I'm more of a researcher cum interviewer."  
"I used to be a reporter myself. Wars mostly, although I did do the odd peace keeping mission gone wrong. You ever covered a War?" she asked.  
"No, I mainly do human interest," I said, feelings of professional inadequacy blossoming.  
Her smile widened. "You really don't know what you're missing."  
Was v. glad when one of the production assistants indicated that she'd found two yobs going by the names of Pigbog and Skuzz willing to be obnoxious in front of camera. Were a little older than target age group, but as Dave the sound technician pointed out in rather more vulgar fashion beggars can't be choosers.

We then took Pigbog and Skuzz to Lower Tadfield where we filmed them swearing, shouting and noisily messing about on motorbikes in the middle of village green. Unfortunately had to do two takes of motorbiking due to fact that copy of _Sense and Sensibility_ fell out of brown paper bag Pigbog was carrying about with him. When questioned by Skuzz as to why he was carrying book around in first place he went bright red, muttered something about it being a present for his mum and demanded v. aggressively that we re-shoot entire scene, which we did.  
"Jane Austen's one of my favourite authors," I said to him while Skuzz was gulping from bottle of Jack Daniels and yelling abuse at passers by (well members of production crew) in front of camera.  
He looked around furtively and whispered. "Yeah, but I reckon that them Bronte women were better."

Mr. RP Tyler walked passed with his horrible yappy dog whilst Skuzz and Pigbog were pretending to fight in middle of road. Thought for a second that he was about to have seizure. Am certain that it was v. bad and unspiritual of me to feel a stab of glee at idea of this. Suspect that he will be penning letter to The Mail on Sunday, local MP and perhaps even United Nations some time very soon.

6:15 p.m. Sigh. Just tried to get through to Mark in Bolivia, but he was apparently in v. important meeting with lawyers representing the people trying to sue the Newtrition corporation. Miss Mark. Then tried to phone friends; but Shaz watching football, Jude at opera with vile Richard and Tom asleep and annoyed at being woken up. Miss friends.

6:30 p.m. One of the production assistants just asked me if I was going down for dinner. Do not fancy spending another night watching crew faun over Mr. Flash Bastard and his ideas for tacky and ethically challenged reality shows, but wanted even less to spend evening alone in room mooning over fact that have nobody to talk to.

10:40 p.m. Blurry brill night. Flash bastard actually complete sweetheart. Has promised me will be rich and thin and all enemies struck down. Hurrah. Am cmpleetly pished.

12:55 a.m. Ugh. Feeling v.v sick. Maybe should have not joined in that drinking game. Am bit worried that seems to be paper scrawled on in rust coloured ink next to bed. Wonder what it is?

12:57 a.m. IMMORTAL SOUL CONTRACT. Has to be some kind of joke, doesn't it? Doesn't it?

12:58 a.m. Ohshitohshitohshit. Have cut across palm. Have memories of giggling and signing bits of old paper with blood from hand. What the hell have I done?

12:59 a.m. Oh bugger, cannot cope with this just now. Will deal with it in morning. Probably just silly game.


	5. Friday

A/N: Big thank you to the people whoreviewed the last two chapters.

****

**_Friday 26th June_**

_8st 4 (excellent), bra size 34D (amazing), alcohol units 32 (appalling, but understandable), cigarettes 43 (again, appalling but understandable), calories 651 (v.v. good, but more due to sheer terror than actual will power; and probably unhealthy given new weight), no. of national lotteries won 1 (v.v.v.v.v.v.v good), no. of immortal souls still sold to Satan 1 (v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v bad)._

8:55a.m. Blurgh. Urge to be violently sick rising. Have vague memories of something strange occurring last night, but can't quite recall what. Think that parchment and sunglasses involved. Think I'll remain v. still and try and go back to sleep for a few minutes. Memory bound to be better after nausea and headache subsided.

12:35p.m. Oh bugger, have succeeded in grossly oversleeping. Production assistant just knocked on door to see if I was okay. Shamefully lied and said that I thought I had some sort of food poisoning. Still, at least innard churning nausea and pounding headache seem to be fading.

12:40p.m. Think bathroom scales aren't working. Could not have lost a stone over night. Could I?

1:20p.m After getting dressed – in designer clothes that didn't realise I actually had – went to front desk and asked if scales in room could be broken. Ms Hodges (apparent owner of hotel) kindly let me use hers. Dial went once more to 8st 4. Should feel elated at this news; especially as breasts do not appear to have shrunk in proportion to rest of body (in fact seem slightly larger and perkier than they did yesterday), yet am consumed by horrible sense of foreboding. Why?

1:30p.m. Have just noticed unpleasant blood encrusted bit of old paper on bedside table.

1:33p.m. Blood on old paper is actually writing. It tells me that I Bridget Jones have hereby pledged my soul to Satan in return for beauty (in keeping with modern standards thereof), wealth (again, in keeping with modern standards thereof) and bestowing of terrible afflictions upon all enemies.

1:35p.m. Events of last night suddenly coming back to me:

"_So Anthony." Hiccup. "What d'you do when you're not thinking up ideas for morally degenerate reality television programs?" Hiccup._

"_Me. I do lots of other morally degenerate things."_

"_What like?"_

"_Well, don't tell anyone. But I'm a demon."_

_Drunken laughter. "Show me your horns pointy tail then."_

_Offended expression. "Look Brianna.…"_

"_Bridget!"_

"_Right, right Bridget. Don't go around showing my horns and pointy tail to people I've just met, you know? Not that sort of demon."_

"_Sorry."_

"_So you should be." Pause. "D'you think that you should really be drinking vodka out of the bottle?"_

"_Why shouldn't I, you're doing it too? Don't try and impose your paternalistic double standards on me, you… you chauvinist."_

"_Told you, I'm notta chauvinist, I'm a demon. Liver's not going to pack in like yours, is it? Well, cept that time in 1362. Took me ages to get a new one from the management it did."_

_Hiccup. "So if you're a demon." Hiccup. "Does that mean you spend your nights seducing innocent maidens?"_

_Offended stare. "I'm notta bloody incubus either. 'Sides, not as if you can do anything fun with an innocent maiden, is it? I'm hells top man… well, man shaped creature, on the planet. Did the Eden job, didn't I?"_

"_Did you?" Hiccup._

"_S'what I just said."_

"_Prove it then."_

_Vodka bottles suddenly refilled. "S'a blurry good trick, Anthony."_

"_I know. Say, you wouldn't mind selling your soul to hell would you? I'm a bit behind on this decade's quota."_

_Giggle. "Alright, but do another trick first."_

"_What sort of trick?"_

"_I dunno; turn the curtains green or something."_

"_Alright." Snaps fingers._

"_How d'you do that?"_

_Exasperated stare. "Told you twice before already. I'm a demon. Now about that soul of yours."_

1:50p.m. Alright, must not let imagination fun away with me. Would be v. gullible to think Anthony Crowley really a demon (did not after all look very demonic when he fell off bar stool). Clearly the whole thing just a silly, drunken joke. Think it was v. wrong of him to get me to sign the paper in own blood though. Probably thinks that getting vulnerable women to cut themselves is amusing. The fact that I'm now slim, pert breasted and looking ten years younger is clearly result of strict health regime and self control on my part.

2:30p.m. Have just found out that I've won today's National Lottery. I switched on the news to hear name being announced as sole winner of 40 million pounds. Do not think that the sudden churning in my stomach is entirely due to ecstatic happiness. Suspect this is due to the fact that a) I haven't actually bought a lottery ticket for weeks and b) the jackpot for the daily draw is usually not 40 million pounds. Still, no reason to panic. Probably just due to some sort of computer error. Yes, that'll be it. Nothing to due with that bloody bit of paper.

4:30p.m. AAAAARGH. For the past two hours have been inundated with pleading requests for money from everybody I've encountered. Have also discovered from production assistant that Dave the sound technician has been struck down by laryngitis and seems to be suffering from some sort of rapid onset mid-life acne.

4:35p.m. Cannot deny the evidence any longer. Have actually gone and sold my immortal soul.

4:37p.m. Query: would it be possible to claim diminished responsibility on the grounds of delusion at time of signing (i.e. the fact that did not believe demon's really existed).

5:15p.m. After a bottle of wine and twenty-five cigarettes am feeling much calmer. Will simply burn contract and deny fact that it ever existed.

5:16p.m. Gah, the bloody thing seems to be flame retardant.

5:45p.m. Shortly after the failed burning of the infernal contract the phone rang:

"Hello?" I said, feel justifiably wary.

_IN SEVEN DAYS... OH WAIT THAT'S NOT IT. DAGON HERE: MASTER OF MADNESS, UNDER DUKE OF THE SEVENTH TORMENT. MS. JONES, IT HAS BEEN NOTED THAT YOU'VE ATTEMPTED TO INFLICT DAMAGE UPON YOUR COPY OF DOCUMENT 666A: THE SOUL EXCHANGE CONTRACT. I MUST REMIND YOU THAT SHOULD YOU ACTUALLY SUCEED IN DESTROYING THE DOCUMENT THERE WILL BE A PENALTY FOR THE REISSUE TO BE CREATED._

I gulped. "A…a Penalty?"

_INSTEAD OF SPENDING THE FIRST STAGE OF DAMNATION IN STANDARD TORMENTS, YOU'LL BE SENT TO WORK IN THE IMP CRECHE._

"Crèche? But I like children."

_HAH. TRY SAYING THAT AFTER AN EARTH DAY WITH THOSE BLIGHTERS._

It was then that I took a last stab at finding a rational explanation for what was happening. "Anthony is that you. Because if this is some sort of set up for one of your sick candid camera shows then I'm going to bloody well sue."

_ANTHONY, WHO'S ANTHONY?_

"Anthony Crowley."

_CROWLEY. YOU THOUGHT THAT I WAS I WAS THAT PLEBIAN BASTARD. I AM AN UNDER DUKE YOU KNOW._

Seized by what must have been a sudden instinct for self-preservation I began to apologise profusely. "Mr. Crowley produces several cruel and unusual candid camera shows, so I thought that maybe…."

_IT'S ALRIGHT FOR SOME. SWANNING ABOUT UP THERE WHILE SOME OF US ARE DOWN HERE MAKING SURE THAT EVERYTHING RUNS SMOOTHLY._

"I didn't mean to suggest that you weren't hard working Mr Dag…."

_LORD._

"Sorry, Lord Dagon."

_NONE OF THEM EVER TALK TO ME AT PARTIES, YOU KNOW. THEY DON'T WANT TO HERE ABOUT THE FIENDISH NEW FILING SYSTEM I'VE DEVELOPED OR HOW I'VE MANAGED TO RESTRUCTURE DUKE HASTUR'S PAPERWORK, SO THAT EVEN HE CAN UNDERSTAND WHERE HE'S SUPPOSED TO BE SIGNING. IT'S NOT AN EASY TASK YOU KNOW. BUT DO I GET ANY ACKNOWLEDGEMENT? NO, THEY IGNORE ME. START TO BACK AWAY WHEN I TRY TO ENGAGE THEN IN CONVERSATION ABOUT THE ALTERATIONS I'VE MADE TO THE IMP REQUISITION FORMS. BUT IF YOU BRING UP THE SUBJECT OF THAT BLESSED SERPENT OF EDEN, THEY'RE ALL EARS._

Not knowing quite what else to say to the irate voice on the other end of the line, I asked if he'd ever considered taking up a hobby. "Lots of people who work in borin… I mean, admin jobs have a creative outlet these days."

_CREATIVE OUTLET?_

"Like painting or… or playing a musical instrument."

_WHAT ABOUT CARVING?_

"You mean with wood?"

_I WAS THINKING MORE OF LIVING BONE._

I found myself gulping once again. "Well, I suppose you could…."

_AND THIS WOULD MAKE ME A MORE INTERESTING DEMON, WOULD IT?_

I told him about the work/life balance and how a variety of interests could help one to acquire a wider circle of friends (felt rather hypocritical at this point owing to fact that am yet to take up Pilates, chess, opera, art appreciation or any of the other cultured/healthy pursuits I vowed to study this year). Then advised him to read _Rising Above the Rat Race_. I said that it was a bit but worth it. He said that this didn't matter as no self-respecting demon would go around paying for things. Proceeded to spitefully tell him that I'd observed Anthony Crowley paying for things on several occasions. He seemed happily outraged at this fact and the ensuing rant lasted until he realised that he had some minions to berate for filing copies of Writ 15645646.11111b with Writ 15645646.11111c.

_GOODBYE MS. JONES. I'LL SEE YOU AGAIN AT DAMNATION._

Was a bit annoyed when the phone receiver melted.

6:30p.m. Decided that all things considered, have only one recourse: get mind blowingly sozzled.


	6. Saturday

**_Saturday 27th June_**

_9st 4 (v. relieved), alcohol units 2 (g), cigarettes 5 (g), calories 3255 (80 cream cakes), no. of bookish, middle-aged poofs who turn out to be soul reclaiming angels met 1 (v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v. good)._

2:20p.m. In retrospect getting mind blowingly sozzled whilst living in fear of accidental eternal damnation not best idea I've ever had. Spent all morning wondering whether said damnation will involve perpetual hangovers (am already certain that dress code will involve mixing lime green with bright orange and puce). Still, have now calmed down enough to attempt to think about things rationally and logically. Mark is brilliant lawyer. Therefore will phone him and explain situation. After all, literature full of clever people who've found loopholes in such contracts.

3:45p.m. Well, phone call didn't go quite as well as expected. After finally managing to get through to Mark was faced with task of trying to describe predicament.

"What's happened Bridget," he said, sounding concerned owing to fact that I'd had member of his legal team drag him out of meeting on grounds of dire emergency back home.

"Mark," I said, with a sob, "I've gone and… and…." For a moment I didn't know what to say. Found self unable to tell him over the phone that I'd sold my soul to Satan in exchange for small waist, big tits, lots of money and vengeance upon annoying sound technicians. He'd think I'd gone completely mental. "I've accidentally signed a contract I didn't mean to sign and I need to somehow get out of it."

I could hear him sighing on the other end of the phone. "How long do you have before it comes into effect?" he asked, sounding very tired.

"Well… the rest of my life, I suppose," I said, in a small voice.

"Bridget, I was in the middle of a meeting with Dr. Sable and Mr. White's legal representatives. We've almost managed to reach a settlement for the workers affected by the contaminated tomatoes."

"Mark, I'm sorry. It's just that I'm terrified about what's going to happen to me."

His voice softened. "Look, I promise to have a look at it once I get back next week, but I really have to go now,."

"Thank you," I said, before putting the phone down and promptly bursting into tears.

Right, mustn't start panicking again. Mark will be home in a week. Just need to avoid dying until then.

5:55p.m. After sitting in hotel room for ages, trying to avoid anything that might, however improbably, lead to death. I decided to go and have a cigarette in grounds around the back of the Manor (Mary Hodge's was in the lobby and assured me that I wasn't likely to be hit by a stray paintball "we don't do much paintballing anymore," she said with what seemed to be a slight wince). Unfortunately the pleasant scenery of the Tadfield area was marred by the presence of the short, fat, grubby-mack-wearing vagrant I'd encountered on the bus the other day.

"Hello," I said, sternly telling myself that one shouldn't avoid extending common courtesy to people just because they're socially disadvantaged.

"Alright," he replied, sounding disgruntled.

"Lovely day, isn't it?" I continued, slightly disconcerted that there appeared to be something moving around in his unkempt hair.

"Nah, rubbish for lurking. You want an 'orrible grey day for a good lurk, preferably with some drizzle an' a bit o' murky mist." There was a disturbing note of nostalgia in his voice. "Course, now that bastard Hastur's decided that we should start lurking with other people, I've got to do it by myself."

I offered him a cigarette.

He seized the whole packet.

"What're you lookin' so bloody miserable about then?" he said, flicking what looked like a maggot off his right hand.

I found myself telling him about Anthony Crowley and the immortal soul contract.

"Hah," he spat, once I'd recounted the whole sorry tale. "That bastard snake always likes to go on about how he's above working on one soul at a time, how he can do millions at a time, but when it gets down to it he's just the same as the rest of us. Well, apart from the fact that he doesn't 'ave my finesse."

I could almost feel my mind beginning to melt as I tried to reconcile the word finesse with the revolting sight before me. "You're a demon too then?" I asked, trying not to look too disgusted as he picked his nose.

"I'm a Duke of Hell. An' if you ask me, you should be glad you flogged your soul while you still 'ad the chance. Alright, you might suffer eternal agonies that make you wish to the last fibre of your being that you could stop existing, but at least you won't be surrounded by any of them poofy angels up there." He then, seemingly spurred on by the fact that I was too polite to run away right there and then began to list his grievances against an angel called Michael, Anthony Crowley and that 'lyin' cheatin' bastard Hastur'.

I gave him my copy of _Overcoming Co-Dependence _and suggested that he might need professional help to deal with the holy water flashbacks.

9:20p.m. Amazing, wonderful, brilliant news. My soul is not longer the bought and paid for property of Satan. I was sitting miserably in the restaurant at the Manor, trying to eat an overcooked steak, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see a man in a tweed jacket with a concerned expression on his face.

"Are you quite all right?" he asked. The phrases 'Oxford educated' and 'flamingly gay' instantly sprang to mind.

"I'm fine," I lied.

"It's just that I've been here for twenty minutes now and within that time you seem to have started crying three times. I couldn't help but be concerned."

"It's nothing," I said, aware that I was on the verge of another bout of self-pitying sniffling. "I've just had a terrible week."

"Would you like to talk about it?"

I found myself staring at the table. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Oh, I don't know about that," he said soothingly, taking this as a cue to sit down on the chair opposite me. "I'm used to hearing strange tales. Especially in Tadfield. Did you know that the Antichrist was born here, in this very building?"

I dropped my fork. "Antichrist! Are you a demon too?"

The man looked shocked and rather hurt. "Oh no," he said. "Quite the opposite."

"You mean you're…." I found myself to awe struck to continue.

"An angel, that's right. Though I really would appreciate it if you didn't ask to see my halo. I can't help but think that it's rather crass and showy to start glowing in public unless absolutely necessary."

For the second time today I found myself pouring out the story of me, the reality TV producer who turned out to be a demon and the accidental soul contract. When I'd finally finished he patted me on the hand. "Oh dear," he said gently, yet with a strong undercurrent of disapproval. "You really must learn not to consume so much alcohol. Especially not with disreputable sorts like Crowley."

I didn't argue. "You've met him before?"

"Dear girl, I've known the old snake for over six thousand years. Though I must say that tricking inebriated women into signing their souls away is usually beneath even him. I think that stern talking to is in order."

"It won't do any good," I said, feeling another pang of self pity coming on. "I'm already damned."

"Well," he said, seeming at once rather distracted by something behind me. "I don't know about that." I turned around to see what he was suddenly so preoccupied with, only to spot Anthony Crowley walking smugly through the door.

He seemed to smile as he saw the angel (part of mind couldn't help but wonder if there was something more than eternal conflict was _going on_ between them), before suddenly freezing as he noticed me.

"Er, hello Aziraphale, and, er, Bridget."

Was v. proud of self for not attempting to claw his eyeballs out there and then.

"Hello Crowley," said the angel, in tones that suggested that were incredibly polite yet inexplicably threatening.

There were several seconds of pointed silence.

"Look, I can explain everything," he blurted out.

"Really my dear, do go on."

"She took advantage of me when I was drunk."

"_She_ took advantage of _you_?"

"Well, she kept demanding proof that I was a demon. And you can't get much greater proof of infernal nature than the fact that somebody can buy your immortal soul, can you?"

They proceeded to argue about the incident for the next half hour in the manner of an old married couple. Had I not been so worried am certain that would have found it rather endearing. Finally, Aziraphale (angel's name) announced that they'd have to talk to somebody called Adam.

One phone call later – in which Mr. Crowley explained the situation in an extremely apologetic fashion to this 'Adam' person – and my soul was once again in my possession.

"Now dear girl, you will try and look after it a bit better this time, won't you?"

I nodded.

Aziraphale beamed and ordered three rounds of cream cakes.

10:25p.m. Blurgh. Bloody cream cakes. Where the hell did I put the Alka Selzer.

11:50p.m. Woke up by ultra annoying phone call from Cinnamon Productions.

"We've decided that with everybody else doing the rural dystopia thing we might as well can Rural England Uncovered."

"What!"

"We want something pleasant and nostalgic instead. You know, with village fetes and stuff like that. Real Sunday teatime viewing."

"But…."

"We're sure you'll think of something."

Village fete? Where the hell am I going to find one of those on a Sunday?

11:55p.m. _Tadfield Fete: Sunday 29th June 12:00 - 4:00p.m. on the village green._. Who the hell put that flyer there? Aziraphale was right. Is definitely something v.v.v.v.v. strange about this place.

1:23p.m. Wait a minute. Wasn't _Adam _ the name of the boy I interviewed on Wednesday?


End file.
